You're Hired, Albeit Grudgingly
by AuroraBlix
Summary: The circumstances under which Louisiana and the Director met, Louisiana joined Project Freelancer, and Louisiana decided to never, ever have normal hair. (This is mostly for The Freelancer Collaboration, because they asked, but also because a partial origins story is just good for the soul.)


**A/N: It's the AuroraBlix drinking game! Every time the POV switches, take a drink! Every time the name for the same person changes, take a shot! So, this is dedicated to KnightlyWordsmith as an apology for those last two false alarms. Also, this is for NicKenny and their Freelancer Collaboration. Enjoy!**

* * *

Dr. Leonard Church frowned as he cast his gaze around the crowded club.

This was where he was supposed to find her? The woman who had taken Crichton and his psychotic psychoanalyst down a peg—in a loud yuppie bar?

The older man sighed, sensing that this was yet another dead end. He had been searching for this woman for weeks, and this latest rumor of her whereabouts was likely just that—a rumor.

Honestly, Dr. Church was beginning to feel like the grandmother in that insipid Disney film that Carolina had loved as a child. What was its name?

Oh, yes. _Anastasia_.

He felt like he was searching high and low for a person very important to him, though not in any personal way, and was only finding smoke and imposters. Perhaps it was time to give up on this former-agent, this Hecate, and turn his attention to one of the others as a potential Freelancer.

But, no, she was one of those who had found out Crichton's betrayal and actually attempted to do something about it. She was a doer. She was a person of action. She was someone who could help Dr. Church now that Crichton had resurfaced and was threatening all that he was trying to accomplish, with all his half-baked schemes.

Preferably, he would have gone with her partner, Krios, but all the reports and files that Dr. Church had access to supported the claims of the man's alleged death.

No, Hecate was his best bet for taking Crichton down, again.

So, Dr. Church would wait, as would the impatient plainclothes Freelancers scattered throughout the club. They would wait until it as obvious that she wasn't here, either.

* * *

Not that Carter Cortez thought she couldn't handle the military morons casing her joint, if they finally decided to act, but being stalked was still very unnerving.

So far, she'd spotted three soldiers in plainclothes, and she had a feeling that she knew who their CO was.

Seriously, it was just sad how they stuck out like sore thumbs.

Not that they were really all that conspicuous to someone who wasn't on the look-out for them, mind you. There were plenty of off-duty soldiers in Errera, in fact they made up a good portion of Valentino's clientele.

But these idiots were _trying_ to blend in, were _trying_ to look like civvies. Needless to say, they were all failing spectacularly.

The red-head was radiating the whole female-soldier, _Don't-fuck-with-me_ vibe like it was going out of style.

The cute, playboy-looking guy kept darting glances at Mr. Salt-and-Pepper, who Carter made as their leader, while he was chatting up a cute little blonde at the bar.

And Big-Badass-And-Bald wasn't even actually _trying_. He was just leaning against the far wall—the one closest to the exit, of course—and sweeping the club for threats. Or maybe something else.

The way Salt-and-Pepper kept checking out every person who inhabited the club was indicative of searching for something. Was he waiting for someone, and the soldiers were backup in case things went sideways?

Any other day, Carter might have thought that they were organized crime—maybe the Mob, also a not small portion of their clientele—but then she saw the way Salt-and-Pepper stood, the way he comported himself, and knew that he was military.

"Hey" a voice behind Carter said into her ear, and she had to exercise an admirable amount of self-restraint not to flinch. Her last job had gone sideways almost immediately—oh, she had ripped Rogers, her main employer, a new one for _that_ fiasco—and was still a little jumpy. Usually, she tended the bar in Errera to _relax_ after a tough con, but military missions taking place on _her_ turf wasn't really conducive to that.

Carter's eyes darted to the side, and she saw Romeo leaning against the bar, eyeballing the current threat.

"You see these assholes?" He asked quietly, close enough to her ear that he didn't have to shout over the pulsing music and couldn't be overheard.

The young woman gave a tiny nod, filling the order of an older man for"a Manhattan, dry" without missing a beat.

"They casing the place?" Romeo demanded, turning to her experience as a… well, less-than-law-abiding citizen.

She shook her head in response to that. "I don't think so," she murmured, smirking at one of her regulars as her stuttered out his order. Even after coming here for months, the kid still got nervous around her. It's not like she even _broke_ his arm, just dislocated it. "I think they're waiting for someone."

Romeo _Hmm_ed, unhappily. "You think we should warn Teri?"

Carter winced at the thought of her "sister's" face when she asked the pretty, Hispanic woman to go over to Roger's emergency-house. Yeah, _that_ would go over _real_ well.

"Do you really want to be the one to have _that_ conversation?" She said out the side of her mouth to him.

She saw Teri's pseudo-Italian husband cringe subtly at the thought. "Uh, that'd be a no," he said, delicately. "What do you think they want?"

Carter wiped her hands on the towel she kept on her shoulder, then pushed it into Romeo's hands as she made her way out from behind the bar. She leaned across it to him, smirking.

"Why don't we just ask him?"

* * *

"Can we help you with something?"

Dr. Church turned to look at the source of the deceptively-cool voice, whose message was really "Any reason we shouldn't shoot you?"

The owner of the voice was a (_very_) young woman—one of the bartenders that he recognized from the other side of the room—of about 5'4", wearing slacks, a loose-fitting button-up shirt, leather vest, and leather-laced boots.

If it weren't for the heat that she was obviously comfortable packing on her right hip and the well-disguised threat in her voice, it would have been funny exactly how _much_she looked like a bartender.

Dr. Church was suddenly a _lot_ more interested in the woman (the _girl_, really) when he saw an Italian-looking man in his mid-twenties standing several feet behind her. And the space between them did nothing to diminish the force of his menacing glare.

Deciding to play at ignorance, Dr. Church adopted an unconcerned tone and said, "Scotch, neat."

The woman's face darkened momentarily, before clearing and morphing into an insincere smile that was somehow much more intimidating. She leaned forward, invading his personal space.

"Oh, I don't think you quite understand me," the bartender said sweetly. "_Clearly_ you're looking for something, and we would _love_ to help you find it."

Dr. Church raised his eyebrows at the growl that her voice had slipped into by the end of the statement. Perhaps she _could_ help him.

The way her eyes took in every detail of her surroundings suggested an at-the-ready mind-set, and the way she moved spoke of a coiled, waiting violence. Clearly, she was not someone to be trifled with, no matter her size.

Just as he opened his mouth to speak, a commotion broke out in the middle of the dancefloor. The young bartender let out a growl that was alarmingly like Agent Maine's, shot him a glare that clearly said _Don't move_, and stalked over to the three men that were locked in some kind of three-way altercation.

Well, it would certainly be interesting to see how she dealt with the situation.

* * *

Okay, _now_ Carter was pissed!

First she has to deal with a paramilitary jackass casing her club, and now those morons from last week were taking their best shot at destroying her bar?

Oh, no _fucking_ way.

She made her way over to the scrapping soldiers, pushing people out of the way when they didn't move fast enough. One of the men had been knocked to the ground and was already dazed, so she picked him up by the scruff of his shirt and threw him into the waiting arms of Romeo, who took care of Soldier Boy #1 by manhandling him out the door of the club.

_Now, for the others_, Carter thought irritably.

Soldier #2 (Blondie) currently had Soldier #3 (Ginger) pushed onto the top of the bar and was doing his best to demolish his opponent's face. The young woman smoothly stepped up behind Blondie as he pulled back again, grabbed his fist, and twisted it into the most painful arm-lock she could manage.

Using that leverage, she pulled him off of Ginger, and pushed him into the middle of the circle that the crowd of spectators had formed. Carter glanced behind her, as Blondie attempted to regain his bearings, to see if Romeo was taking care of Ginger.

She had her weight distributed evenly, so when the right hook from Blondie caught her on the jaw, she was forced onto her knees facing away from him, but was not knocked off her feet.

Blinking in surprise, she immediately popped back up and brushed her left thumb across her lip, which had been split.

Despite how the movement stung, Carter smirked at the hapless blonde soldier. "Blood costs extra, jackass," she informed him, cheerful as the sun. The soldier charged the bartender and she ducked, spinning around him so that he ran into the bar again. When he spun to face her, Carter dodged his two wild swipes at her head and retaliated with an elbow to the face.

He shook his head to clear it and tried again.

They traded a few more blows before Carter got annoyed. Finally, she stepped forward and treated him to a knee in the solar plexus, then one to the face when he doubled over in pain.

The force knocked Blondie onto his back, and she followed up by straddling the idiot soldier—pinning his arms to his torso in the process—and hitting him in the face with her fist one, two, three times. He tried to raise his head briefly, before letting it fall to the floor in stunned disbelief and a mild-to-moderate concussion.

Carter rose from her position on the ground and grabbed a pair of cuffs that she kept behind the bar. She then nudged Blondie over onto his stomach, slapped the cuffs on him, hauled him up by the scruff of his shirt, and steered him through the crowd to the door.

When she exited, the bartender saw that Romeo was already speaking with an off-duty cop and they had the other two men involved in the scrap sat next to each other on the ground. Irritation rolling off of her in waves, she pushed Blondie onto the ground next to them.

She nodded at Romeo and the cop—Damien, she now recognized his name as being, and one of their regulars—before heading back into their club.

Though the music was still playing in the background, most people were staring at Carter—with blood dripping sluggishly down her chin and a mixture of Blondie's and her own staining the split knuckles of her right hand, she was certainly a sight.

She raised her eyebrows at the crowd, and smirked.

"Anyone else want to start trouble?" Carter asked in a falsely-amused voice.

Most people in the club chuckled, shook their heads, and went back to whatever they had been doing. A few looked mildly disturbed by what had just transpired, and subtly made their way out of the establishment.

The bartender glanced around the room, easily finding Salt-and-Pepper's little soldiers among the crowd, before turning toward the man himself and making her way back toward him.

She was just not in the mood for this bullshit tonight, and would have answers if she had to kill for them.

* * *

Dr. Church was pleasantly surprised by the fighting prowess that the young bartender demonstrated to the crowd of civilians and, more specifically, the drunken soldiers that were causing trouble. Though, her willingness to use those skills quickly end the dispute spoke even more about her character and state of mind than anything else, in his opinion.

And now she was before him yet again, mask of cold calculation in place, and he suddenly suspected her identity. Taking what amounted to a leap of faith to Dr. Church, though the dog-tags that had sprung out from under her shirt helped solidify the answer in his mind, he spoke.

"Agent Hecate."

The expression on her face was gone behind cool indifference too fast for his rational mind to analyze it, but instinct and his subconscious supplied the answer:

Hatred, pure and unbridled.

Not directed at _him_—at least, he didn't _think_ so—but at the words. At the name.

"I haven't been called that in… a _very_ long time," the young woman said haltingly. As she crossed her arms and rested a hip against the railing of the stairs he was seated next to, she fixed him with a gaze that could have flash-frozen a fish. "Where did you hear it and, more importantly, how did you find me?"

Dr. Church gave a wry chuckle. "You would be surprised at what I can do, even from a distance."

Faster than though, the bartender—Hecate—had a wickedly-sharp blade at his throat, and he had to force himself not to swallow.

Hecate leaned forward to hiss into his ear. "Well, I doubt _you_ would be surprised at what I can do from _this_ distance. How give me one reason not to perform at least _one_ of those things before your pet soldiers can even reach me."

The older man's eyes darted around—noting, as they did, how Hecate had placed herself at such an angle that no one could see the knife—and saw what she meant.

Carolina was firmly enmeshed in a staring contest with a pretty little Hispanic woman wearing a flow-y white dress—he didn't recognize her—seemingly caught in the middle coming to his aid.

Agent York was being blocked by the man Dr. Church remembered as backing up Hecate the first time around, and assisting in the removal of the troublemakers.

He wasn't at an angle to see Agent Maine, but he had an idea of what he might be doing.

Dr. Church swallowed reflexively, wincing as the minute addition of pressure caused the metal to bite into his skin, and thought quickly. Truth, he was sure, would be more appreciated (and better received) than lies, or even half-truths.

"Crichton," he rasped out. "Dr. Sebastian Crichton is back in the game. And, word is, he's out for blood. _Yours_, and the blood of anyone else who helped take him down."

Hecate pulled away from Dr. Church, as if she had been burned. Her mask fell away and, remembering the date on her file, he was suddenly struck by how young she really was.

The young bartender's eyes flickered to her companions who were detaining his Freelancers, tugging on her right ear—which was the resting place of a handful of glittering diamond studs—as she did.

Able to fully utilize the use of his neck again, Dr. Church looked around to see the man step out of York's personal space—the normally charismatic agent looking to him for orders—and the woman break eye-contact with Carolina—who simply looked pissed off.

He glanced over at Agent Maine to confirm his suspicions, as saw the behemoth of a Freelancer nursing a bottle of Guinness.

Hecate almost seemed to stumble backwards, before she slumped into the seat in front of Dr. Church.

"He's really back?" The bartending, former-soldier whispered, her eyes curiously glazed.

* * *

Fear, as real and immediate as it had been years ago, gripped Carter Cortez. Or, _Hecate_, she supposed. There wasn't any point in pretending like she wasn't that person anymore, no matter how she tried to convince herself that it was true.

It wasn't like Romeo had ever stopped calling her "Catie", even after, what was it—five years?

Not long enough. Not _nearly_ long enough, in her mind. But then, it was also too long. It was too long that she'd spent pretending like there wasn't a war going on. Too long that she'd spent pretending like she hadn't been on the wrong side of it for more targets and assassinations than she cared to consider. Too long that Crichton had gone on _breathing_, while Rio's breath had stopped long ago.

Five years ago.

No, this was perfect. And terrible. But perfect in its terror. Or was it just terribly perfect? Carter's—Hecate's?—thoughts were racing too fast for her to get a beat on them as they formed.

But still, under everything, even her own internal babbling, she was so incredibly-perfectly-terribly afraid.

She was afraid for herself. She was afraid for her family. Afraid for her friends and afraid for her enemies. Afraid for the entire life that she had built up—for, if Salt-and-Pepper was right, it was about to come crashing down around her ears.

She couldn't have stopped the question from leaving her mouth if she had cared enough to try.

"He's really back?"

The man gave a sharp nod when Hecate looked up at him for the answer, feeling strangely numb. And tired. She was so very tired.

"What do you want me to do about it?" Hecate asked him, dully. The man's answer surprised her.

"Kill him."

The young woman's eyes flashed to his face, searching for some sign that he was joking. She found none, and accepted the reply with a harsh laugh.

"I couldn't do that if I tried. And I did," she added, not sure what his clearance level was, but figuring he ought to know. "I tried my damnedest to kill that bastard, and his demon spawn, and all I got were scars and dead friends for my trouble."

That last bit was said with a bitter kind of resignation.

Salt-and-Pepper raised an eyebrow. "You were hardly prepared for that kind of eventuality," he pointed out, and Hecate had to snort.

"For something to be an eventuality, you have to _know_ it's going to happen." She looked the older man in the eye. "Us poor bastards had no idea. After all, what good little soldier is going to suspect their CO of double-dealing under the table to Insurrectionists?"

The man conceded her point with an inclined head, and Hecate looked over to Romeo, gesturing for drinks. When he arrived with the much-needed alcohol, he gave her a wild, questioning look that Hecate waved away and took a sip.

The Black Velvet seared her throat as it went down, but it helped her focus. And she needed to focus when Salt-and-Pepper began to speak again.

"But you didn't have what you have today, and tomorrow, and the day after," he leaned forward slightly as he spoke, and Hecate couldn't help but mimic him.

"Whiskey," she interjected, and was pleasantly surprised when he shot her a flat, unamused look. Perhaps this wasn't a waste at all, if she could annoy this smug, Texan bastard.

"Project Freelancer," the man corrected.

This drew a frown of confusion. "What the hell is that—some new ONI program?"

He shook his head. "ONI has no authority over the Project. I'm its director, Dr. Leonard Church."

Hecate noted with some satisfaction that _Leonard_ neglected to extend his hand in greeting. She wasn't sure if he would have anyway, but took a fierce sort of pride in the idea that the beads of blood on his neck were a contributing factor.

"I would like you to join Project Freelancer," Leonard said straight-forwardly and the bartender blinked at the left-fielder.

Then she smirked at the good ol' doctor. "I don't do military," she said, clapping him on the shoulder as she rose from her chair. Hecate _finally_ understood what this was about and, as such, no longer felt compelled to stay.

Leonard's voice stopped her in her tracks, not three steps away, though. "You clearly don't do civilian life, either, Miss Princeton."

Hecate spun on her heel toward the Texan bastard, and opened her mouth. Unfortunately, she didn't seem to quite know what she wanted to say, and closed it again.

He raised his eyebrows at rendering her speechless, then continued. "Or do you prefer your latest—Miss Cortez, I believe. No? Well, then maybe Mercado. Or Martinez. Maybe it's Archer, you do seem to go back to that one quite frequently. Is that the one you prefer?"

The woman couldn't seem to make herself speak.

"I'll admit that it was quite a challenge to find you. After all, we had conflicting reports about possible sightings pouring in from all sides. You've been very busy, Miss Princeton," Leonard complimented as he took a sip of his Scotch.

"Almost every system had stories of a young woman who might be 'Hecate'. All young women, but all seemingly different. Different names. Different defining features. Different accents. Different social circles. It took quite a bit of time to realize that they were the same person. _You_."

The man looked at the young woman as she sat back down, panic building in her chest again, and she took another searing drink of her whiskey.

"And then I realized something," he said abruptly. "I was looking in the wrong places. I was looking for the wrong woman. _I_ was looking for a well-adjusted member of society, for a woman who had moved on from being a soldier.

"But you're a thief, Miss Princeton," Leonard stated, plainly unaffected by the conclusion. "You were a thief yesterday, you're a thief today. But do you want to be a thief tomorrow?" The man asked Hecate, curiosity leaking into his voice.

"Do you want to be a thief next year? In two years? In twenty years?"

Hecate straightened.

In her mind, there were really only two options: give up or get mad. Well she'd already tried giving up, and The Universe clearly didn't appreciate that. Now, Hecate was going to do what she did best.

She twisted her lips into the superior little smirk that he would come to recognize with time, and the man and former-bartender began to speak in earnest.

* * *

When the desolate expression was wiped off Hecate's face, Dr. Church wasn't entirely certain what to expect when it was replaced by a mask whose sole purpose seemed to be aggravation.

But, he supposed, it was better than the hopeless kind of resignation she had been close to succumbing to. Still, he would have to break that habit Hecate had of having every word that came out of her mouth dripping with condescension.

They spoke for a long time after that change in her, though, discussing a great many things.

Dr. Church explained to her the particulars of his Project Freelancer ("Seriously, you couldn't think of a name that _didn't_ sound like a bunch of nerds in a closet came up with it? I mean, at least the 'Titan Initiative' sounds vaguely intimidating.")

Both the doctor and the soldier shared what they knew about Crichton—"the Doc", as she called him—and what his next moves might be ("He'll want to set up base, first. Something secure that he can operate out of, before really putting whatever plan he might have into action. I'll put some feelers out, and see what comes back. Odds are that at least _one_ of my contacts will have heard something about him, or the other Titans.")

The most awkward part of the ensuing conversation, however, was nearing the end when she told him bluntly that she would only agree to it if she had a guarantee from him that she would get out of the Project alive.

"Not that I don't trust you, darlin', but do you really think ONI would have let me and the other Titans walk away if they had anything that even remotely resembled plausible deniability?"

Hecate gave him a look of amused disbelief at the idea.

"You want my help, and you want to keep your guinea pigs out of this fight? Then I'm gonna need access to your files. At least, enough of them to guarantee you won't be coming after me when this is all over."

Dr. Church agreed to allow her access to many of their records, though she agreed not to press the issue when he point-blank refused to have her snooping around the most highly-encrypted ones.

Of course, he expected something in return, as well, and when he motioned for his Freelancers to exit the building, he made that clear.

"When you arrive on the _Mother of Invention_ tomorrow morning, I will expect those monstrosities to be removed and your… general appearance to be professional." He eyed her wildly curly locks when he said this last bit, which brushed her shoulder blades and gave the impression that they were dripping gold.

The effect was achieved by the same novelty technology favored by young people these days, he recognized, remembering when Carolina had been a teenager herself and used it to make her own hair shimmer like bright pink fire.

Yes, that would certainly have to go.

One of Hecate's hands fingered the multiple sparkling studs in her right ear as he made his first demand—though just as worried about the single, small golden pirate-hoop in the center of her left—and merely smirked at his second.

She snapped a mocking salute in response and waved jauntily as the Director made his way out of her establishment.

* * *

It was 0700 hours on the dot when the rookie agent entered the floor of Training Room A—a sense of punctuality that Agent York, and his fellows, would soon realize was very uncharacteristic of the new Freelancer.

Dressed in dull silver armor and a CQC helmet, York remembered being surprised that the little woman moved with an odd ease that generally came with having been accustomed to wearing MJOLNIR armor for at least several months.

Regardless, he and the other Freelancers breathed a collective sigh of relief when she arrived on time. Nobody wanted a repeat performance of what happened when Utah had been twenty minutes late for muster, his first day.

"Agents," the Director called to the dozen or so other Freelancers milling about, and they immediately fell silent and into position. York took his customary place at the end, next to Wyoming, and peered around the line to see Carolina in front, with the Director approaching them and the rookie in tow.

"This is your new comrade, Agent Louisiana, and I trust you will all be sure she is settled in and aware of how things work on the _Mother of Invention_."

York shivered at the threat in his superior's voice.

"Sir! Yes, sir!" the Freelancers lined up replied as one.

The Director gave a single, sharp nod and opened his mouth to dismiss them. Unfortunately, however, wise-ass Wisconsin in olive-green felt the need to open his mouth, clearly not having learned his lesson when Maine had nearly knocked all of his teeth out the last time.

"I'm all for giving the rookie and warm welcome," the Aussie agent piped up from between Wyoming and Washington. "But it's kind of rude for her not to let us see her pretty little face, don't ya think?"

Everyone on the floor held their breath, but before the Director could respond, the rookie took a smooth step forward and removed her helmet in one easy motion, revealing short spiky hair of a shiny, metallic silver and a playful smirk.

"And you would be?" She said, quirking an eyebrow wickedly at the green agent.

Said agent cockily strode over to the rookie and held out a hand. "Wisconsin," he said imperiously, and York had a feeling that he was either sneering or leering.

The young woman with the odd hair took his proffered hand and shook it, her smirk widening when Wisconsin visibly winced at the strength of her grip.

"Louisiana," she said easily. Then she increased the pressure and pulled in unfortunate Aussie closer, and gave a low growl that even Maine was probably impressed with. "Now get back in line."

Wisconsin nodded a little frantically, and rushed back into his spot in line.

Louisiana turned back towards the Director, and grinned impishly when she saw that he was glaring at her hair. "You like? I thought it would be _much_ more professional if I was color-coordinated."

The Director simply narrowed his eyes the new female Freelancer and curtly dismissed the assembled Freelancers.

York made his way over to the woman in sea-foam green, and bumped her shoulder with his. "I told you the chick from our club was the one he was looking for. So, pay up," he said playfully.

The fierce red-head grumbled unintelligibly as they made to exit the training room floor.

As York followed Carolina, he heard the rookie—Louisiana—ask curiously, "Do you know where you can find some food around here?"

He glanced back to see a Standard Issue soldier who had been monitoring the entire ordeal with a few others—York suddenly realized that he had been the one snickering when Wisconsin had run back to the line with his tail between his legs—nod and say, in a stark Irish accent, "Yeah, I'm headin' over meself. I'll show ya."

"Cool," the young woman replied, nodding, as they followed York and Carolina down the hall for a spell. "I'm Louisiana."

Just as the tan-armored Freelancer rounded the corner that went in the opposite direction of the rookie and her new friend, he heard the Irish man answer, "O'Hara. Staff Sergeant Daniel O'Hara."

* * *

**A/N: I understand that Director Church is very unlikely to actually have a "Say hello to your new classmate" session with the Freelancers, but bear with me here people. This is fanfiction, what do you want from me?**

**Also, I would just like to say, that I personally believe that the Director's greatest creation is actually Louisiana's ****_hair_****. Anyone else agree with me? Reviewers receive gold stars!**


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